BEARDY BLOKE

 

A jaggedy man of forty years

Decided one day he wanted a BEARD.

So down he sat in his favourite chair

And willed his face to grow some hair.

The time rolled by, tick tock, so slow,

Yet not a hair was seen to grow.

‘Absurd!’ he thought, ‘A man like me,

Can’t grow a BEARD before his tea!

I’ll go in search of facial hair,

A quest for BEARD from anywhere!’

So off he set through his front door

And saw what he was looking for.

‘Here!’ he cried, ‘The perfect thing!

The lining from my wheelie bin!’

So with some tape around his face

He stuck the plastic into place.

And proud as any man could be,

He set off walking down the street.

Yet all he heard was laughs and jeers

From those who spied his plastic BEARD.

‘Take it off, you vain old fool!’

Came the cries of ridicule.

‘We all know that isn’t hair!

It’s just a bin bag that you wear!’

 

Away he bolted from the town

Until the laughs were all but drowned,

And as he left the town behind,

He found himself in countryside.

 

‘There must be something here,’ he thought,

‘Something of the BEARDy sort’.

So off he went into a wood

In search of something hairy good.

And soon he saw upon the ground

A mass of hair so very round.

He picked it up and stretched it wide

And to his face the mass applied.

Yet, soon as it was set in place

He felt an itch upon his face.

A tickle here, a prickle there,

Life lived in this facial hair!

A thousand fleas jumped into life

And all at once began to bite.

Then four small feet all stuck out,

Followed by a snuffly snout,

And suddenly, he realised,

A hedgehog stared into his eyes.

He threw the beast down to the leaves

And let out one almighty scream,

And fast as both his legs could scram

Away the beardless wonder ran.

He scooped up leaves and mossy lumps

And passing mice and capsicum,

Some bark from oaks and slippery toads,

Something squashed from off the road,

But not a one of these adhered

To give to him the perfect BEARD

And soon the night began to fall

And left him with no hope at all.

Lost, so lost, he blundered on,

Through  moonlight shafts, so woebegone;

For days and nights he persevered

In fruitless search for perfect BEARD,

But everything he touched or used

Left him bitten, scratched or bruised.

Then finally, by lucky streak,

He found himself back in his street.

‘Oh, joy!’ he cried, ‘I’m glad I’m safe!

Who cares about my naked face?

What matters now, where e’er I roam,

There really is no place like home!’

He chanced upon young Mr Frode,

The postman who worked up their road.

‘My!’ said Postie, ‘What has passed?

You look as if you need a bath!

Your clothes are torn, you’re worse for wear,

And look at all that facial hair!’

‘Facial hair!’ the poor man cheered,

‘Do you mean I’ve grown A BEARD?’

‘Nay!’ said Postie with a smile,

‘That beats a BEARD by half a mile!’

‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’ said BEARDy bloke,

‘Without me trying I got my growth!’

And home he trotted, full of glee,

To get himself a cup of tea.